


On The Clock

by vienn_peridot



Series: Citrus Basket [23]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Consensual Kink, Desperation Play, Dom!Jazz, Embarrassment, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Humiliation, I'm Going to Hell, Light Dom/sub, Masturbation, Omorashi, Other, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Sub!Prowl, Voyeurism, Watersports, Wetting, catch yous guys there, see yous fuckers there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-18 23:27:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13110747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vienn_peridot/pseuds/vienn_peridot
Summary: Prowl's office is always VERY clean.Suspiciouslyclean.Ever wondered why?





	On The Clock

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CerysKitty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CerysKitty/gifts).



> Merry fuckin' celebratory things, Cerys.  
> If you have to just lie on the floor, raise your middle fingers at the brainglitch and wait for it to get bored and fuck off. You can outlast this thing. You're tougher and meaner than it can ever hope to be.  
> In the meantime, have some robots doing nasty things to entertain you.
> 
> **IMAGINE, if you like:**  
>  Red Alert is making sure nobody interrupts and fapping his hands off in his office. Because why not go for a full trifecta of sin?

It took a massive effort of will for Prowl to keep himself on-task when all he wanted to do was watch the clock and count down the minutes until Jazz’s arrival.

Keeping his mind on his work was all but impossible. It was all routine, boring stuff he could do while half-asleep and drugged to the back teeth. The kind of paperwork that took so little processing power he had to play complex strategy games while doing it or else his battle computer would seize up from sheer boredom.

That was the reason why he’d saved all of it for this afternoon.

Because this afternoon he was playing a little game with Jazz.

At midday Prowl had deliberately diluted his ration and chugged the resulting cubes with grim determination. By now his frame had filtered a lot of the useless liquid out, resulting in a steady, insistent pressure in his waste tank.

It wasn’t at capacity, not yet.

But it was getting there.

Shifting in his chair, Prowl glanced at the time and stifled a groan of frustration. He still had a while before Jazz was supposed to arrive. Arousal burned low and steady in his array, lubricant pooling inside his valve cover while the head of his semi-erect spike pressed insistently against the inside of his pelvic armour. The first hot pang of tension as his waste pump primed itself had him shooting bolt upright in a futile attempt to give his waste tank some more room.

Pressing his thighs together didn’t help but he did it anyway, shifting his weight subtly and trying not to just rub his panels against his chair. Pressure against his panels helped his straining waste outlet stay closed, but it also added to the arousal twisting slowly through his frame.

Time crawled as the pressure in his waste tank grew, hot and urgent.

Every time Prowl adjusted position his spike rubbed against the inside of his armour and more lubricant trickled slowly from his valve. Each slight rocking movement shifted the contents of his waste tank, confusing the sensors and sending mild prickles of alarm through overtaxed systems.

It was almost impossible to figure out if moving or staying still was more torturous in his current state.

… At least, Prowl couldn’t decide which set of sensations he enjoyed more.

For the entire length of his functioning he’d quietly enjoyed the feeling of an almost-full waste tank. It had something to do with the way his frame was wired, but Prowl didn’t care about the subtle details of anatomy. It was his secret, a guilty pleasure he indulged in private. He would savour the slow build every time, the way tension in his waste tank communicated itself to his array, echoing backwards and forwards until the urgency and pressure built to the point where he was consumed with the need for relief.

Today the diluted fuel had done its job almost _too_ well. Prowl’s sensorwings twitched high on his back, moving in time with the throbbing in his array. Staring blankly at the processor-numbing datapads scattered on his desk, Prowl considered sliding a hand down to his lap. There it would be safely out of sight below his desk and he could slide his armour open, press a finger or two against his tank outlet to ensure nothing escaped before it was time. Eventually, he decided against it with a silent sigh of regret. He had been specifically ordered to keep his hands above the desk until Jazz arrived.

Any temporary relief to be gained from disobedience wasn’t worth upsetting his Master.

All Prowl could do was grit his denta and send a silent plea to Primus that nothing would interrupt them.

By the time Jazz appeared Prowl had given up even pretending to work. He was sitting bolt upright, hands clenched tightly on the arms of his chair as his hips worked in minute back-and-forwards motions to roll his panels over the seat of his chair. As for Jazz, he sauntered casually into the office as if this was just another day. Another ordinary, boring afternoon that could be livened up by pestering his mate.

Completely preoccupied with the heat licking at his circuits and the piercing urgency in his waste tank Prowl barely noticed the muted beeping of Jazz locking the door with codes not even Prime could override. There was still ten minutes left before his shift ended.

Ten minutes until he could stop pretending he was just about to get back to work.

“Ya look about ready to explode, pet.” Jazz purred, the condescension in his tone making Prowl’s sensorwings drop and swing back. “How about you just let it out so you can concentrate on the rest of your shift, hmm?”

For a moment Prowl thought his audials had glitched.

“W-what?”

Jazz’s grin was sharp and predatory below the opaque band of his visor.

“You heard me.”

Horror, shame and a thrill of perverted pleasure surged through Prowl, broadcast clearly to anyone watching.

“M-master, you want me to… Relieve myself?” Prowl swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. He willed his vocaliser not to crackle. “ _Here?_ ”

“Yep, _there_.” Jazz confirmed, crossing his arms as he leaned back against the wall. “Right where you’re sitting, pet.”

Having it spelled out for him like sent a larger surge of that wicked arousal through Prowl. It pooled low in his belly as his array and waste tank throbbed, anticipating relief. He canted his sensorwings in a motion that conveyed a combination of shameful acceptance and absolute obedience.

“Yes, Sir.” He murmured, optics fixed on the glow of Jazz’s visor.

Biting his lip, Prowl tried to do as ordered. It was harder than he anticipated; normally he would be standing or crouching over something to catch the flow of his waste liquid. Sitting in his office chair like this there would be nowhere for it to go.

_It’s going to pool on my chair, great big puddles. It’s going to get into my seams, under my armour…_

A low grown rolled from deep within Prowl’s chassis as he felt his outlet finally spiral open, hot relief sweeping through his frame as the first trickles of waste liquid flowed out into his pelvic armour.

Belatedly he slid the plating aside, freeing what had already gathered there. Trapped lubricants joined the first trickles of Prowl’s waste, quickly washed away by the surge that followed. He didn’t notice, too consumed by the pleasure-spiced sensation of his waste tank emptying to be aware of anything else.

 

### ~V~V~V~

 

Jazz couldn’t quite believe it, even though he’d commanded Prowl to do this and was now watching with his own optics. Even when autonomics folded his pelvic armour away to reveal his aroused equipment he ignored the demands of his array in favour of watching Prowl.

All throughout his release Prowl kept a vacant, grey-blue stare fixed on Jazz’s faceplates. The straight-laced Praxian had been transformed. Right now he was a creature of ecstatic, kink-driven bliss. His expression one of pure arousal combined with acute embarrassment and unswerving obedience.

It was a sight that would get Jazz revving from zero to sixty in _milliseconds_.

By now he wasn’t sure if Prowl was even seeing him, the mech too caught up in the sensations of his frame to pay attention to anything else. It didn’t matter; he’d have his pets undivided attention again soon enough.

In the meantime his own low groan of lust was lost beneath Prowl’s sighing moans of relief.

With his specialised audials Jazz could hear it all; the initial trickle evolving into a steady spray against the upholstery of Prowl’s chair, the wet drip and splash as it overflowed. With his visor he could trace the bright, warm path of Prowl’s waste as it puddled around him in the chair, got into his armour, ran down his legs and started spreading across the floor.

The sharp, acrid stink of hot waste liquid filled the small office so thickly Jazz swore he could feel it clinging to his plating.

When the flow finally dribbled to a halt Prowl seemed to come back to himself. His optics focused properly, sensorwings dipping awkwardly as his faceplates and chevron started to glow in infrared, eclipsing the cooling shades of his release. He pushed his chair back and made to stand, but Jazz ordered him back down with a wave of his hand.

“Master?” Prowl was a study in confusion and discomfort.

“You’ve still got about seven minutes left of your shift.” Jazz caught the aroused quiver of Prowl’s sensorwings as he figured out his the game. “No slacking off on my behalf; I’m happy to wait until it’s time for ya to clock out.”

Prowl made a good show of being reluctant as he settled his weight back down in his chair and scooted back to the desk, but Jazz could feel the aroused rumbling of his powerful pursuit engine through the floor.

Smirking, Jazz dropped a hand to his fully pressurised spike and started stroking lightly. Prowl glared daggers at him from behind the desk as he picked up a datapad, optics dropping to it for a split second before flicking back up to focus on him again. Slouching against the wall, Jazz let brought his other hand in to play with his valve, savouring the sight of the annoyed, aroused enforcer sitting in his own slowly cooling mess.

It was intoxicating; enough to have him on the edge of overload by the time Prowl’s seven minutes were up.

“Alright; shift’s up!” Jazz announced cheerfully as the last second rolled away. “Bend over your desk; knees wide for me, pet.”

Obediently, Prowl rose to his pedes. Pushing his chair back he assumed the requested position with smooth, graceful motions. Waste liquid that had yet to dry dribbled from the chair as it rolled across the floor to hit the wall with a thump.

Jazz could see the gleaming sensorwings trembling uncontrollably as he circled the desk. His engine _purred_ when he saw the mess spreading grey and oily across the floor, shining on Prowl’s armour. The Praxian was absolutely _coated_ from crotch to knees, lukewarm liquid trickling down the armour of his lower legs. Wet armour shifted smoothly, gliding easily over substructure as Prowl shifted, presenting his valve. Lubricant was already joining the grey waste covering his thighs.

Pausing for a moment, Jazz drank it all in.

Prowl, _The_ Prowl, covered in his own liquid waste and waiting to be fragged hard enough to risk breaking his desk.

It was moments like this that made the rest of his life worth it.

Biolights winked as the Praxian’s valve cycled, the only outward sign of impatience besides the shivering sensorwings. Jazz reached out, sliding teasing fingertips through the mess of lubricant and oily waste liquid coating the plump, aroused folds of Prowl’s valve. Prowl jerked and moaned at the contact, canting his hips to give Jazz better access.

Blunt fingertips scraped over the desk as Jazz played, bringing Prowl back up to the same state of mind-blanked desperation he’d been in earlier. He wanted the entirety of the mech’s processing power focused on the desperate need for release, knowing that it was in Jazz’s power to give or withhold. It wouldn’t take long, not with the way Prowl was whimpering and pushing back, trying desperately to rub himself against Jazz, smearing lubricant and oily waste liquid everywhere.

Pushing in close, Jazz crowded Prowl against the desk. He wasn’t massive enough in comparison to the Praxian to be truly intimidating, but he knew more than enough tricks to give a very real impression of danger. His high-performance engine revved in a warning that made those elegant sensorwings splayed and quivered in surrender.

Grinning ferally Jazz closed the distance between their frames, sliding easily into Prowl’s welcoming heat. Gritting his denta he hooked his fingers into the seams of Prowl’s armour and pulled the willing mech back into his thrusts, doing his best to give his lover the pounding he craved. He wouldn’t last long, not after seeing the way Prowl had submitted so beautifully to Jazz’s will and to his own pleasure. It was all he could do to hold on and drive into Prowl with all the power in his frame, pedes slipping in the puddles of waste and lubricant, drawing high-pitched keens from the Praxian with every bruising impact of their pelvic armour.

Overload rose in a molten tide, pouring through Jazz and into the willing frame beneath him. Prowl followed him with a shuddering keen, the rolling grip of his valve easing Jazz through his peak and down the other side.

When it passed he draped himself over Prowl’s lower back, his legs too wobbly to be trusted to keep him upright.

Below him Prowl’s engine purred happily, reassuring Jazz that he hadn’t taken things too far. Resting his weight on his elbows, he peered around a lazily waving sensorwing to see Prowl with his helm pillowed on his forearms, looking sleepy and thoroughly debauched, apparently not bothered at all by the state of his plating.

“You gonna fall asleep down there?” Jazz asked as he slowly eased himself free of Prowl’s frame.

“Maybe. It’s comfortable enough.” Prowl sounded as relaxed as he looked.

Raising an optical ridge behind his visor, Jazz finally took a proper look at the mess Prowl had made.

“And people wonder why your office is always so clean.” He said with a snicker.

“Oh shut up.” Prowl muttered, his optics dimming. “Everyone knows it’s your fault, anyway.”

There wasn’t anything Jazz could say to that.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been slacking in my generalised "write one thing every day that would make mother ashamed" goal  
> gotta work on that


End file.
